into its sheath, pulled his helmet on, dropped easily back into the saddle, saluted, and galloped off. Priscus let out his breath again and sat down.
I turned Farna quietly and started back to my own troop. A stone wall ran from the base of the tribunal along the edge of the field, and as I passed the far end of it, I noticed the carriage on the road behind, and the white stallion yoked between the shafts. I recognized the horse, and because of that, recognized the legate’s wife, peering through the carriage window with her cloak over her head to keep out the rain. From the way she held her head, her eyes were still fixed on Arshak.
“What are you doing over here, Ariantes?” came Facilis’ voice. “It is Ariantes inside that armor, isn’t it?”
I turned back to see the centurion standing at the end of the wall, where the stone gave some shelter from the rain. I did not like to explain that I’d come over in case the legate needed reassuring about Arshak, and I tried to think of a convincing excuse. Facilis, however, went on before I could come up with one. “You thought you might tell the lord legate that Arshak’s not as dangerous as he looks, did you? Too late. Anyone can see that he is.”
“Arshak will keep his oath,” I replied. “He will fight as well for Rome as he did against her.”
“And if all there is for him to do in the North is patrols and guard duty, with no fighting?” asked Facilis. “What will he do then? He has to fight someone. He might need to mend his coat.”
There was no point in talking to the man. I started Farna on without saying anything.
“Will you stand up in the saddle as well, and offer your sword to the legate?” Facilis jeered as I went past. “Or is your leg too stiff to let you? Tell me, did you ever succeed in killing the brave man that chopped it?”
I stopped Farna and looked at him. For a moment I felt like contesting Arshak’s right to the centurion’s scalp. But a commander shouldn’t think with his dagger. “Why do you want there to be trouble with us?” I asked.
“Because if we have the trouble out now and break you, you won’t make trouble later, when we’re off our guard,” he said vehemently. “There are Roman lives at stake. I’m quite clear about that.”
“Clearer about it than we are,” I told him. “There does not have to be trouble. Peace will take work, yes. It will take great care, delicacy, close attention. But it is possible. We are willing to serve the emperor if we are not forced to betray the customs of our own people. You do not help. If one of my men had heard you say that, he might have killed you where you stand. Then he would die himself, for defending my honor. Is it just, Facilis? We are both servants of Rome now, or trying to be.”
“And why should you want peace?” Facilis asked bitterly.
“Because I am sick of war,” I said—and the strange grief I had felt when I held my armor again snapped suddenly clear.
He looked at me in open disbelief. “You? A Sarmatian?”
“I. A Sarmatian. And you, a Roman, you still love it?” I set my heels to Farna and sent her flying down the field without waiting for response.
I cursed him silently as I led my dragon in front of the legate and offered him my sword—without standing in the saddle. As so often, the centurion had been right as far as he went—and then completely wrong. Mine is not a peace-loving nation, and if I had told my own men that I was sick of war, they would have stared in dismay and begged me not to talk like a coward. And yet, anyone can tire of death and killing. I saw now that I was so tired of it that I dismayed myself.
At the dinner with the tribunes that evening, the talk was all of arms and armor and horses. It was friendly, though.
We’d made awnings of brushwood about the main campfire, covering them with straw, which was abundant in the surrounding countryside since the harvest was just in. With more straw on the ground to keep it
I turned Farna quietly and started back to my own troop. A stone wall ran from the base of the tribunal along the edge of the field, and as I passed the far end of it, I noticed the carriage on the road behind, and the white stallion yoked between the shafts. I recognized the horse, and because of that, recognized the legate’s wife, peering through the carriage window with her cloak over her head to keep out the rain. From the way she held her head, her eyes were still fixed on Arshak.
“What are you doing over here, Ariantes?” came Facilis’ voice. “It is Ariantes inside that armor, isn’t it?”
I turned back to see the centurion standing at the end of the wall, where the stone gave some shelter from the rain. I did not like to explain that I’d come over in case the legate needed reassuring about Arshak, and I tried to think of a convincing excuse. Facilis, however, went on before I could come up with one. “You thought you might tell the lord legate that Arshak’s not as dangerous as he looks, did you? Too late. Anyone can see that he is.”
“Arshak will keep his oath,” I replied. “He will fight as well for Rome as he did against her.”
“And if all there is for him to do in the North is patrols and guard duty, with no fighting?” asked Facilis. “What will he do then? He has to fight someone. He might need to mend his coat.”
There was no point in talking to the man. I started Farna on without saying anything.
“Will you stand up in the saddle as well, and offer your sword to the legate?” Facilis jeered as I went past. “Or is your leg too stiff to let you? Tell me, did you ever succeed in killing the brave man that chopped it?”
I stopped Farna and looked at him. For a moment I felt like contesting Arshak’s right to the centurion’s scalp. But a commander shouldn’t think with his dagger. “Why do you want there to be trouble with us?” I asked.
“Because if we have the trouble out now and break you, you won’t make trouble later, when we’re off our guard,” he said vehemently. “There are Roman lives at stake. I’m quite clear about that.”
“Clearer about it than we are,” I told him. “There does not have to be trouble. Peace will take work, yes. It will take great care, delicacy, close attention. But it is possible. We are willing to serve the emperor if we are not forced to betray the customs of our own people. You do not help. If one of my men had heard you say that, he might have killed you where you stand. Then he would die himself, for defending my honor. Is it just, Facilis? We are both servants of Rome now, or trying to be.”
“And why should you want peace?” Facilis asked bitterly.
“Because I am sick of war,” I said—and the strange grief I had felt when I held my armor again snapped suddenly clear.
He looked at me in open disbelief. “You? A Sarmatian?”
“I. A Sarmatian. And you, a Roman, you still love it?” I set my heels to Farna and sent her flying down the field without waiting for response.
I cursed him silently as I led my dragon in front of the legate and offered him my sword—without standing in the saddle. As so often, the centurion had been right as far as he went—and then completely wrong. Mine is not a peace-loving nation, and if I had told my own men that I was sick of war, they would have stared in dismay and begged me not to talk like a coward. And yet, anyone can tire of death and killing. I saw now that I was so tired of it that I dismayed myself.
At the dinner with the tribunes that evening, the talk was all of arms and armor and horses. It was friendly, though.
We’d made awnings of brushwood about the main campfire, covering them with straw, which was abundant in the surrounding countryside since the harvest was just in. With more straw on the ground to keep it
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